Arigato, Mrs. Meyer

My knowledge of Japan is limited to Madama Butterfly (the opera), M. Butterfly (the movie with Jeremy Irons), The Mikado (in a category of its own), peace cranes, anime, and Mrs. Chamberlain. Mrs. Chamberlain was an elderly neighbor in Manhattan Beach, California. She had moved from rural Georgia with her husband just before WWII. When he was killed in Italy, she decided to stay in her small cottage and at that time became obsessed with Edgar Cayce, the "Sleeping Prophet." She enjoyed talking theory and explained that we gravitate to places or have a yen to go somewhere because we are remembering a past life. Her place was Japan. She "went" there every night and warned if I came over any time and found her asleep, or maybe even dead, I was not to disturb her as she would be out of her body and in Japan. I said I had a yen for the British Isles and Scandinavia but I didn't think reincarnation was the motivator. I thought it was on account of growing up in tropical paradises while longing for weather with some backbone. Currently, I am reading a book by Carolyn Meyer, A Voice from Japan--An Outsider Looks In, which covers a month she spent researching. I have been very surprised by most of the facts. I had no idea. For instance: children must pack a different colored napkin in their lunches. Monday, pink; Tuesday, blue; Wednesday, green. Perhaps times have changed as this was written in 1988 but I have a feeling even so, youngsters will, when approaching middle age, instinctively look for blue on Tuesdays. Carolyn must have been reincarnated all over the place since she has written about Russia, Egypt, France, Alaska, India, and the Rio Grande. As fascinated as I am to be learning about Fukuoke and Utsunomiya, I am really eager to proceed to the next book on my list of hers, A Voice from Northern Ireland--Growing Up in a Troubled Land. I am looking forward to mystery story fogs and tall rain boots. It won't be as long as Kristin Lavransdatter but then, nothing is. I'll let others discuss past life regressions and whether I might have been a dairy maid in Thomas Hardy country or a spiritual singing slave at Monticello. I belong to the "One Life to Live" crowd, gorging on tales from far off lands and future times, enjoying the serendipitous gifts along the way. Personally, I think if I were anybody, I must have been a tree dweller, stitching together some aspen leaves to fashion a volume of poetry, marking the days with pine twigs in order to meet Tuesday deadlines, and leaping down to make angels in the snow.

...may the blessings of cultural differences engage and enhance your days...

"When Green Buds They Were Swelling"

<-----Up, up, up to the light.

The word, "May" had a lot of significance in my family. It housed three birthdays--grandmother, mother, daughter. There was Cinco de Mayo on which day there would be the playing of the Mexican birthday song, "Las Mananitas." There was the Maypole with its extravagant ribbons, the next best thing to flowers. There was my mother singing tunelessly, "'Twas in the merry month of May when green buds they were swelling" which brought tears to my eyes because of the sad tale of Barb'ry Allen. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EFHTJ08U_Fg It occurs to me this would have been one of the songs Jenny Lind would have had in her repertoire as it dates back to the early 18th Century. And there was May Frank, the prairie journalism teacher who convinced her students--my dad being one of them, and Aunt Stella on the other side of the A's and U's (aunts and uncles)-- that eye exercises would prevent blindness. May married a younger man named Joe Rhoades. I'm not sure if he went blind or what the motivation was but they started two important projects: a center for the blind and a community garden. I met them in New York City when I was eight so I'm guessing that somewhere close by are descendants of their zucchini. I wrote a poem about the month of May,"Oh where was I when April passed that tousled child of spring?" Unfortunately, the rest didn't measure up to the first line. No reprint here! Speaking of writing, the book The Meaning of Anxiety comes to mind. It was written by Rollo May who spent three years in a sanatorium for tuberculosis patients. He whiled away his time wisely mostly reading Kierkegaard, a huge influence. There was the game, "Mother, may I?" played in a different era definitely. Does anybody say, "May I?' anymore? There was my blue bottle collection. The catalyst was finding a two inch blue bottle replica of the Cape May Lighthouse. And "may"be my favorite of All Things May is "May it be an evening star shines upon you" from the Fellowship of the Ring, the beginning of the grand Lord of the Rings adventure. Lastly,let us not forget to cap things off with the blob blessings prefaced by three dots and, "may."

...may the month of tiny wildflowers peeking bring you blessings of beauty...

"On Wings of Song"

On a walk-through of the Bartow-Pell house, the guide confessed to wanting to tell us all about Anne Hutchinson. Apparently he is about Anne the way I am about Jenny Lind. I don't remember first hearing of Jenny Lind. She was a figure along with George Washington and Ichabod Crane who regularly populated the conversation at my family's supper which was leisurely and late because of afternoon siestas and high teas. I knew she was the "Swedish Nightingale" before I knew where Sweden was located; I knew B.T. Barnum had taken her on an American tour; I knew she was probably the most unsung charitable person of the 19th Century. Mendelssohn was supposed to have been in love with her, something I can believe as his art songs would do a nightingale proud. When I was living in Eureka, the landlord had what looked to be an old trunk sitting out in the rain, fog and occasional sun. You know how I can get weepy over what Gwen called the "Killing of Furniture." I asked him if I could have it. I couldn't bear watching it deteriorate. He said it was a useless piece of junk and good riddance. I was in the grips of Imagination, though, and right on the spot I replied, "I'm going to turn it into the Jenny Lind Seachest. There's no reason in the world that Jenny Lind couldn't have sailed into Eureka to be a guest of the Carsons. When I'm looking out the window at the Carson mansion, I can feel it's true!" He scoffed. I worked and worked on the chest adding a ruffle of vintage brocade to hide the rotted handles; pasting quotes decoupage style along the insides. I turned a couple of cartons into fitted "jewelry cases." I polished it with reddish brown shoe wax and placed a broken silver brooch to act as a pretend lock. The landlord came by after a couple of weeks and joked about how valuable his castoff was. Curious to see his reaction, I invited him to see it. "Holy moley {the cleaned up version}. If I'd known it could look like that I would have kept if for myself." He was a compulsive yard sales man. Every Sunday, expensive colorful bird kites flew above the grassy patch out front. He offered to buy if from me. No sale. I wanted to keep Jenny with me forever. Suddenly, though, my lease was up and I decided to move Back East. P.T. Barnum wasn't paying for the trip so I had to make downsizing choices. I told several people about the chest. Launderland Girl showed the most interest. I told her I'd give it to her. I wanted someone who appreciated the craft of restoration. She came by in a compact car with her mother. They heaved it delicately and made it fit. My job was done: one trunk saved, one more chance to pass along Jenny Lind's story. In 1999, there was only one entry when B.E. searched the computer for a school paper. Now there are dozens--about the hospitals she established, the baby cribs named after her, a brick tower in Connecticut, a town in California where legend has it she stayed. Historians claim she didn't but fancy tells me she did and she travelled there by way of a sailing vessel to Eureka and then overland by coach, her seachest proudly swaying on the top. I have enjoyed discovering entries from New York Herald articles available online. They consistently mention her "modesty, benevolence, and selflessness." Her husband, Otto Goldschmidt, had been a student of Mendelssohn. Otto's lengthy critique of her voice is a testament to his love for her and his extraordinary musical knowledge. He married her on the American tour of 1850 where 40,000 people had greeted her in New York harbor. Two years previously she had sung at Chopin's deathbed. It's a little known love story eclipsed by the more notorious one of George Sand. There is a painting of this scene which Chopin would have cherished had he lived. It captures her beautiful voice without any need for audio attachment. What a comfort for him that tender singing must have been!

...may the blessings of old songs newly found be yours...

Boxes and Boxes

Today's post may be viewed at:

http://christineintheshire.blogspot.com

A Morning Unlike Others

This week's posting may be found at http://christineintheshire.blogspot.com

Passion Week

artwork by bobby janz

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am visiting in the Shire so my blob this week can be found at http://christineintheshire.blogspot.com

Resting in the Light

On a chilly September night of '07 in Eureka, California, a moment came that was the kind which can only be called transformational. I had been looking casually for a Rumi poem I had read in Roanoke in a book I had borrowed from Susan--something about a "guest in the house." After several attempts with no results, I clicked on a website which threw the whole idea of Rumi out of my mind and drew me into an entirely different world, a world I was perfectly attuned to. It was Sondra Ball's and Mario Cavallini's Autumn Leaves, an online poetry zine with a Native American/Quaker slant. It appeared the couple lived near the Delaware River. The combination of their outlook, heritage, and a wonderful togetherness marriage was irresistible to me and I started reading the poems dating back to '99 and continued late into the wee hours. Every issue had several of Sondra's poems and children's budding writings. I liked her haiku and winter poems best and became enamoured with the Delaware River. I could imagine her dancing in the firelight to maybe the music of Robert Mirabal. I saw I could submit a poem by e-mail. I rarely submit poems as I am picky about the company I keep. However, this was a place and person so on my wavelength that I immediately started typing. The response was prompt and cheerful. I suggested to my cousin Karen and Randy Walker, a Roanoke poet, that they also submit. They did. I began writing more poetry with Sondra's inspiration in mind and sending favorites of hers to friends. I had often used Native American images in Christmas poems, a natural consequence of my beliefs but I wrote my first truly Great Spirit/peacemaker poem the next month, Who Will Mend the Heart of the Heartmender?, and for my Christmas poem a haiku drifted in about the "cloud children." I felt I had come into my own, my home territory. I loved Sondra's "cover letters" for her twice a month poetry fest. They were full of the natural world where she and Mario lived and hiked. I looked forward to sending her something once in awhile. When I read of her death, so courageous, too sudden, I thought of how briefly I had known her. Surely, though, she was one of my oldest friends.

for Sondra

The Dayflower blooms,

its gentle life soon over.

But oh! the beauty

~~~~~~~~~

from Mario's site:

In lieu of flowers, contributions may be made to the Fund for Sufferings, a resource of Mickleton Friends Meeting to assist individuals in temporary difficulty. If you choose to make a contribution, write the check to "Mickleton Monthly Meeting" with "Fund for Sufferings" on the memo line, and send it to:

Mickleton Monthly Meeting
P.O. Box 231
Mickleton, NJ 08056-0231

...may the blessings of the river passages be yours...